


Sunrise

by thesometimeswarrior



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (sort of), Amnesiac Stan Pines, Angst, Canon Compliant, Family, Ficlet, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Sea Grunkles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesometimeswarrior/pseuds/thesometimeswarrior
Summary: “That whole apocalypse thing that happened at the end of the summer—”“Weirdmageddon.”“Yeah, that. It was reallybad, wasn’t it?”Ford moves his hand as if to lay it on his brother’s shoulder, but when his fingers brush the old burn-scar branded into Stan’s skin, lets it fall. “If your memories of it are returning, then that’s agood—”“Yeah, yeah, but…” he pauses. “You were in that weirdness dimension forthirtyyears. Was italllikethat? The wholetime?”Stan, Ford, a morning at sea.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 16
Kudos: 111





	Sunrise

They rise early, these days—like the old geezers and sailors they both are. 

Some mornings, they’re busy. The Stan-o-War II is a trawler, not a sailboat, so there’s no mast to climb, no sails to tighten like the pirates in the comic books they’d read aloud to each other as children—and isn’t that a relief, for their old limbs—but there are coordinates to check, courses to plot, and a revolving door of repairs around the boat to complete on a daily basis.

Other mornings, though, are more contemplative. They make instant coffee with the water they boil on their kettle and wrap their fingers around tin mugs as they sip—sitting quietly together at their little table below deck, or, sometimes, as they venture above to the salty pre-dawn air.

“Can I...uh…ask ya something?” Stan asks on one such morning, fingers tightening around his mug.

“Certainly.” Ford turns from where he had been gazing out at the horizon, watching the sun rise. As Winter approaches—and as they, in turn, approach the Arctic Circle—sunrises are becoming less and less frequent, and each one is an _event_. He’d spent so long chasing miracles inherent in the bizarre, in the _unnatural_ , that he’d forgotten that there was so much to see and learn about the natural world too. 

And Stan's question, too, is commonplace. His memories have more or less returned, but there are nonetheless gaps, particularly of the more traumatic moments, (of which, Ford has come to understand, there were far more than he initially realized). And when these holes in his recall make themselves known, this is how he approaches finding answers: eyes flitted away, a request for Ford to fill in what he knows, often on these quiet mornings.

Ford always obliges when he can. When he _can’t_ , he’s honest about it—more honest than he might have been once—and if there is anyone who might be able to provide some guidance, they keep a list of questions, call whoever might be able to help next time they dock on shore. 

On this particular morning, Stan continues: “That whole apocalypse thing that happened at the end of the summer—”

“Weirdmageddon.”

“Yeah, that. It was really _bad_ , wasn’t it?”

Ford moves his hand as if to lay it on his brother’s shoulder, but when his fingers brush the old burn-scar branded into Stan’s skin, lets it fall. “If your memories of it are returning, then that’s a _good_ —”

“Yeah, yeah, but…” he pauses. “You were in that weirdness dimension for _thirty_ years. Was it _all_ like _that_? The whole _time_?”

Ford hesitates. This is a different sort of question. Not about Stanley’s memories, but rather about his own—aspects of almost half of his life that he sometimes wishes that _he_ could forget. “I wasn’t _only_ in that dimension,” Ford answers at last. “I sort of… _drifted_ through the multiverse, phasing in and out of different dimensions…I suspect it had something to do with the angle that I initially—” 

“Okay, but Stanford—Werid-ma-whatchyacallit was _terrible_. Was it—the whole time you were in there, was it all _that_ bad?”

“Not… _all_ of it. Some dimensions were quite nice.”

It’s a cover-up, a lie of omission, and Stanley seems to hear the sentiment behind these words. Finishing his coffee in a single gulp, he crosses his arms then sinks against the guardrail, slips down, and eventually lands on the deck.

“What is it?” Ford asks, concerned. “Is…Did the memory trigger—”

“No, no, it’s just—“ he sighs. “You were stuck in this awful place—or _places_ —for thirty years…because _I_ pushed you.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Stanley.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“No.” Ford follows him to the floor of the deck, and grips his shoulder tight, this time leaving his hand there. Stan, with what appears to be a great deal of effort, looks up at him. “I mean that,” Ford continues. “It was _mine_. I got so caught up in all of it…in creating… _something_ —and yes, some of that was Bill pulling my strings, but not all of it was—that I couldn’t see the _danger_. Or, if I could, I didn’t _care_. I mean…” He pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Fiddleford very nearly got pulled into the portal. He _did_ get pulled in, and would have stayed that way if he hadn’t happened to get caught on a rope so that I could pull him back. It was only a matter of time before I got yanked in too.” A pause. “I should’ve done more than shut it down. I should’ve _dismantled_ it after I learned of Bill’s plan. But I couldn’t bring myself to…it was my _life’s work_.”

“But…” Stan glances away. “But as you got sucked in, you kept calling my name, didn't ya? You told me to _do_ something, and I…I was too _dumb_ to…I…I _couldn’t_.”

“But you _did_ , Stanley. You brought me _back_.” Ford wraps his arms around his brother. “Do you…remember that?”

“Yeah,” Stan grunts, returning his brother’s embrace. Gradually, he begins to relax into it, and the sun starts to peer over the horizon, spilling light and warmth onto them both. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I love comments!


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